


Tears

by JuliaJekyll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, M/M, More like Reichenbach FEELS, POV John Watson, POV Second Person, Post-Reichenbach, Romantic Fluff, True Love, amirite?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4502751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are still angry. Of that, there can be no doubt, either in your mind or Sherlock's. You are furious, livid, bloody pissed off...but you are still in love with Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>A glimpse at John's post-Reichenbach thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siennna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/gifts).



> New Sherlock fic, yay! This one is for siennna, a stunningly talented contributer to the fandom who inspired me to try writing from a second person point of view. Thanks, siennna, and please enjoy!   
> Everyone else: revel in the fluffy, angsty Johnlock love!

There is a light sheen of sweat on your skin, and your eyes are burning with exhaustion. You've hardly closed them all night long, because sleeping would mean leaving Sherlock, and you can't even contemplate doing that right now, even for the sake of a biological imperative.

Sherlock has not had the same problem. He's asleep, his breathing slow, his dark eyelashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks in the early morning light. His handsome face is thinner than you remember, and you wish you didn't know that this is probably not so much due to a failure in your memory as it is due to the torture he's had to endure. He hasn't told you everything, and you're aware that there are some things you'll never know about the two years he's spent away from you, but he explained his reasons for faking his death in brief, and you know that he did not have an easy time breaking up Moriarty's network. Not by any means.

You are still angry. Of that, there can be no doubt, either in your mind or Sherlock's. You are furious, livid, bloody pissed off, and you're not sure when or even if you will be able to fully forgive.

You cannot recall ever being so blindly enraged as you were when Sherlock, disguised as a damned French waiter, of all things (a mistake on his part; you'd had more than your fill of his theatrics long before he'd 'died', ta very much) had interrupted you and your date during dinner. She hadn't been anyone important, really, just one more in a line of pseudo-romantic outings embarked upon to take your mind off your beautiful, deceased best friend-turned-lover, but you're still rather sorry she had to witness the spectacle of you going utterly off your rocker and pummeling the bloody (literally) hell out of Sherlock in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

Needless to say, you doubt she'll be calling again, but it hardly matters now.

Because after all this time, all the lies, and all the distance, you are still in love with Sherlock Holmes. You are helpless to change or fight that.

Oh, you tried, certainly. You tried for two bloody years, but feelings don't vanish just because we close our eyes and make a wish, even if we do it over and over and over again. You know that now, just like you know that love, for better or for worse, may just be the most resilient thing in the world.

You can remember, in vivid detail, the first time you met, when Stamford introduced you to another man who was looking for a flatmate. You remember when Sherlock, mistaking what was at the time simple curiosity for romantic interest, rebuffed you, and you simply brushed it off with a roll of your eyes and an emphatic assertion that you were not, in fact, gay. And then...well. And then you remember rushing around the city, investigating crime scenes, living your lives and getting your various thrills together, and how, somewhere between leaping from building to building like an teenager with a death wish and experiencing the rawest terror you've ever known, you fell in love.

Sometimes, when he was gone, you used to close your eyes and press the heel of your hand to your lips, pretending it was his mouth. This would almost invariably be followed by an uncontrollable crying jag that would leave your throat raw and your face swollen. You're fairly certain that you cried more during those two years than you had in your entire life before Sherlock. You always thought that if you somehow got the miracle you'd asked for at his grave, if he could somehow come back to you, you'd cry tears of joy. And yet, you still haven't, even though you want to.

Yes, you are still angry, and there is a part of you that wants to hate and reject him. But you asked him not to be dead, and now he isn't, and that is hardly a gift you can just throw back at the universe. Despite your fury, you are relieved beyond measure, because you have missed him for far too long.

And that is why he is currently lying beside you in your bed at 221B.

You did not make love. You did not even kiss, but you could not deny either him or yourself this time together. Not after two years apart. Not after all the nights you spent sleepless, sobbing into your pillow, wishing with every thread of your fractured heart that you could hold Sherlock in your arms again. And so you watch him, daring yourself to believe he's really here, as if you're locked in some sort of sick game with an unseen force, wherein he will be snatched away from you every time you start to think that you can be with this man forever. After all the sweet words, the tender touches, the soft kisses and passionate lovemaking that led you to believe that the first time, he had to go and die. Or pretend to, rather. And now, you're no longer sure you can trust the idea of forever.

Sherlock's eyelids flicker, and you watch as he swims to the surface of consciousness, opening his eyes to reveal beautiful blue irises. You could swear you see them soften as soon as they land on you, and you can feel your heart thud.

“Morning, Sherlock,” you say, pleased with yourself for sounding a bit brisk. It is crucial that he understand that your forgiveness is not going to come quickly or easily, and that your relationship is not the same as it once was. It may never be, even though Sherlock clearly thought that everything would go back to normal the moment he returned (how, exactly, he managed to reach _that_ conclusion, is beyond you).

Sherlock merely looks at you for a moment. “You haven't slept,” he says, stating it as a fact.

You shake your head, a concession. “No.”

Sherlock shifts upward slightly and holds out his arms to you. “Let me hold you,” he says gently. “Please?”

Your throat seems to close up as you remember how the very first time you kissed Sherlock was prefaced with a similar request. You love him so much, and you've been wishing for so long that you could have him next to you again, that you have no hope of resistance. You duck your head and slide down so that you're lying on the bed and allow your body to line up with Sherlock's. He holds you like you're fragile, and in a way, just now, you are.

And it feels so bloody good that you flinch, just from the pure force of the emotions that assault you, and a dry, choked sob forces its way from your throat. Sherlock has wounded you in a way that will take a long time to heal. He lied to you, betrayed you, and left you behind.

He broke you, but your heart belongs to him so irrevocably that there is nothing you can do but give him a chance to pick up the pieces. And you know that that's exactly what he wants to do by the way he buries his nose in your hair, trying and failing to be subtle about breathing in your scent.

Your fingers curve around his wrist. “Make no mistake,” you say hoarsely, “I am still incandescent with rage at you. But by God, Sherlock, I love you with all my heart.”

You hear Sherlock's breath catch, and that is what makes the tears finally rush to your eyes. He crushes you to him, his nose at your temple, as close as you imagined him being for two lonely years. You can feel him trembling.

It is the feeling of his tears against your cheeks that make you finally lose control, and the tears of gladness begin to flow from your own eyes. You've wished for this moment, thinking it was impossible, but now, here it is, right in front of you. Right beside you, rather, in the form of the man you adore.

“I'm sorry, John,” Sherlock sobs into your neck. “I love you so much, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you.”

You kiss his forehead as he repeats those two phrases over and over in varying iterations like a mantra, and you keep kissing his hair and eyes and nose and cheeks, reveling in the simple, beautiful fact that he is back, that he is here, that the two of you have been given a second chance at your forever. It's a second chance that many couples never get, as you know all too well, and so, despite your anger, you are desperately and wildly grateful for it.

Finally, Sherlock grabs your face and crushes your lips with his, and you kiss back, holding him tightly, feeling his tears mix with yours. It's the greatest gift you can imagine, to love like this. And you know that, when your tiredness inevitably overwhelms you, he will stay and hold you.

This time, he will not leave your side.


End file.
